Kimmensen shifted in his chair, blinking in the sunshine of the plaza.
Messerschmidt sat a few feet away, looking up over the heads of the
live audience at the mountains. The crowd was waiting patiently and
quietly. It was the quiet that unsettled him a little bit. He hadn't
said anything to Jem, but he'd half expected some kind of demonstration
against Messerschmidt.
Still, this was only a fraction of the League membership. There
were cameras flying at each corner of the platform, and the bulk of
the electorate were watching from their homes. There was no telling
what their reaction was, but Kimmensen, on thinking it over, decided
that the older, more settled proportion of the League--the people in
the comfort of their homes, enjoying the products of their own free
labor--would be as outraged at this man as he was.
He turned his head back over his shoulder and looked at Jem.
"We'll be starting in a moment. How do you feel?"
Jem's smile was a dry-lipped grimace. "A little nervous. How about you,
Joe?"
Kimmensen smiled back at him. "This is an old story to me, Jem.
Besides, I'm not running." He clasped his hands in his lap and faced
front again, forcing his fingers to keep still.
The surprisingly heavy crowd here in the plaza was all young people.
In a moment, the light flashed on above the microphone, and Kimmensen
stood up and crossed the platform. There was a good amount of applause
from the crowd, and Kimmensen smiled down at them. Then he lifted his
eyes to the camera that had flown into position in front of and above
him.
"Fellow citizens," he began, "as you know, I'm not running in this
election." There was silence from the crowd. He'd half expected some
sort of demonstration of disappointment--at least a perfunctory one.
There was none. Well, he'd about conceded this crowd of youngsters to
Messerschmidt. It was the people at home who mattered.
"I'm here to introduce the candidate I think should be our next League
President--Secretary Jem Bendix."
This time the crowd reacted. As Jem got up and bowed, and the other
cameras focussed on him, there was a stir in the plaza, and one young
voice broke in: "Why introduce him? Everybody knows him."
"Sure," somebody else replied. "He's a nice guy."
Messerschmidt sat quietly in his chair, his eyes still on the
mountains. He made a spare figure in his dark clothes, with his pale
face under the shock of black hair.
Kimmensen started to go on as Jem sat down. But then, timed precisely
for the second when he was firmly back in his chair, the voice that had
shouted the first time added: "But who wants him for President?"
A chorus of laughter exploded out of the crowd. Kimmensen felt his
stomach turn icy. That had been pre-arranged. Messerschmidt had the
crowd packed. He'd have to make the greatest possible effort to offset
this. He began speaking again, ignoring the outburst.
"We're here today to decide whom we want for our next president. But
in a greater sense, we are here to decide whether we shall keep our
freedom or whether we shall fall back into a tyranny as odious as any,
as evil as any that crushed us to the ground for so long."
As he spoke, the crowd quieted. He made an impressive appearance on a
platform, he knew. This _was_ an old story to him, and now he made use
of all the experience gathered through the years.
"We are here to decide our future. This is not just an ordinary
election. We are here to decide whether we are going to remain as we
are, of whether we are going to sink back into the bloody past."
As always, he felt the warmth of expressing himself--of re-affirming
the principles by which he lived. "We are here to choose between a life
of peace and harmony, a life in which no man is oppressed in any way by
any other, a life of fellowship, a life of peaceful trade, a life of
shared talents and ideals--or a life of rigid organization, of slavery
to a high-sounding phrase and a remorseless system of government that
fits its subjects to itself rather than pattern itself to meet their
greatest good."
He spoke to them of freedom--of what life had been like before they
were born, of how bitter the struggle had been, and of how Freemen
ought to live.
They followed every word attentively, and when he finished he sat down
to applause.
He sat back in his chair. Jem, behind him, whispered:
"Joe, that was wonderful! I've never heard it better said. Joe, I ...
I've got to admit that before I heard you today, I was scared--plain
scared. I didn't think I was ready. It--it seemed like such a big job,
all alone.... But now I know you're with me, forever...."
* * * * *
Messerschmidt got up. It seemed to Kimmensen as though the entire crowd
inhaled simultaneously.
"Fellow citizens." Messerschmidt delivered the opening flatly, standing
easily erect, and then stood waiting. The attention of the crowd
fastened on him, and the cameras dipped closer.
"First," Messerschmidt said, "I'd like to pay my respects to President
Kimmensen. I can truthfully say I've never heard him deliver that
speech more fluently." A ripple of laughter ran around the crowd.
"Then, I'd like to simply ask a few questions." Messerschmidt had gone
on without waiting for the laughter to die out. It stopped as though
cut by a knife. "I would have liked to hear Candidate Bendix make his
own speech, but I'm afraid he did." Messerschmidt turned slightly
toward Bendix's chair. In Kimmensen's judgment, he was not using the
best tone of voice for a rabble-rouser.
"Yes, Jem Bendix is a nice guy. No one has a bad word for him. Why
should they? What's he ever done on any impulse of his own--what's he
ever said except 'me, too'?"
Kimmensen's jaws clamped together in incredulous rage. He'd expected
Messerschmidt to hit low. But this was worse than low. This was a
deliberate, muddy-handed perversion of the campaign speech's purpose.
"I wonder," Messerschmidt went on, "whether Jem Kimmensen--excuse me;
Jem _Bendix_--would be here on this platform today if Josef Kimmensen
hadn't realized it was time to put a shield between himself and the
citizens he calls his fellows. Let's look at the record."
Kimmensen's hands crushed his thighs, and he stared grimly at
Messerschmidt's back.
"Let's look at the record. You and I are citizens of the Freemen's
League. Which is a voluntary organization. Now--who founded the League?
Josef Kimmensen. Who's been the only League President we've ever had?
Who _is_ the League, by the grace of considerable spellbinding powers
and an electorate which--by the very act of belonging to the League--is
kept so split up that it's rare when a man gets a chance to talk things
out with his neighbor?
"I know--we've all got communicators and we've all got planes. But you
don't get down to earth over a communicator, and you don't realize the
other fellow's got the same gripes you do while you're both flapping
around up in the air. When you don't meet your neighbor face to face,
and get friendly with him, and see that he's got your problems,
you never realize that maybe things aren't the way Josef Kimmensen
says they are. You never get together and decide that all of Josef
Kimmensen's fine words don't amount to anything.
"But the League's a voluntary organization. We're all in it, and, God
help me, I'm running for President of it. Why do we stick with it? Why
did we all join up?
"Well, most of us are in it because our fathers were in it. And it
was a good thing, then. It still can be. Lord knows, in those days
they needed something to hold things steady, and I guess the habit of
belonging grew into us. But why don't we pull out of this voluntary
organization now, if we're unhappy about it for some reason? I'll tell
you why--because if we do, our kids don't go to school and when they're
sick they can't get into the hospital. And do you think Joe Kimmensen
didn't think of that?"
The crowd broke into the most sullen roar Kimmensen had heard in
twenty-eight years. He blanched, and then rage crashed through him.
Messerschmidt was deliberately whipping them up. These youngsters out
here didn't have children to worry about. But Messerschmidt was using
the contagion of their hysteria to infect the watchers at home.
He saw that suddenly and plainly, and he cursed himself for ever having
put this opportunity in Messerschmidt's hands. But who would have
believed that Freemen would be fools enough--_stupid_ enough--to listen
to this man?
Of course, perhaps those at home weren't listening.
"And what about the Northwesters' raids? Josef Kimmensen says there
aren't any raids. He says we're settling our unimportant little feuds."
This time, Messerschmidt waited for the baying laughter to fade.
"Well, maybe he believes it. Maybe. But suppose you were a man who held
this area in the palm of your hand? Suppose you had the people split up
into little families, where they couldn't organize to get at you. And
now, suppose somebody said, 'We need an army.' What would you do about
that? What would you think about having an organized body of fighting
men ready to step on you if you got too big for people to stand? Would
you say, if you were that man--would you say, 'O.K., we'll have an
army,' or would you say, 'It's all a hoax. There aren't any raids. Stay
home. Stay split up?' Would you say that, while we were all getting
killed?"
The savage roar exploded from the crowd, and in the middle of it
Messerschmidt walked quietly back to his chair and sat down.
Jem's fist was hammering down on the back of Kimmensen's chair.
"We should never have let him get on this platform! A man like that
can't be treated like a civilized human being! He has to be destroyed,
like an animal!"
Heartsick and enraged, Kimmensen stared across the platform at the
blade-nosed man.
"Not like an animal," he whispered to himself. "Not like an animal.
Like a disease."
* * * * *
Still shaken, still sick, Kimmensen sat in his office and stared down
at his hands. Twenty-eight years of selfless dedication had brought him
to this day.
He looked up at the knock on his open door, and felt himself turn rigid.
"May I come in?" Messerschmidt asked quietly, unmoving, waiting for
Kimmensen's permission.
Kimmensen tightened his hands. "What do you want?"
"I'd like to apologize for my performance this afternoon." The voice
was still quiet, and still steady. The mouth, with its deep line etched
at one corner, was grave and a little bit sad.
"Come in," Kimmensen said, wondering what new tactic Messerschmidt
would use.
"Thank you." He crossed the office. "May I sit down?"
Kimmensen nodded toward the chair, and Messerschmidt took it. "Mr.
President, the way I slanted my speech this afternoon was unjust in
many respects. I did it that way knowingly, and I know it must have
upset you a great deal." His mouth hooked into its quirk, but his eyes
remained grave.
"Then why did you do it?" Kimmensen snapped. He watched Messerschmidt's
face carefully, waiting for the trap he knew the man must be spinning.
"I did it because I want to be President. I only hope I did it well
enough to win. I didn't have time to lay the groundwork work for a
careful campaign. I would have used the same facts against you in any
case, but I would have preferred not to cloak them in hysterical terms.
But there wasn't time. There isn't time--I've got to destroy this
society you've created as soon as I can. After tonight's election, I
will."
"You _egomaniac_!" Kimmensen whispered incredulously. "You're so
convinced of your superiority that you'll even come here--to _me_--and
boast about your twisted plans. You've got the gall to come here and
tell me what you're going to do--given the chance."
"I came here to apologize, Mr. Kimmensen. And then I answered your
question."
Kimmensen heard his voice rising and didn't care. "We'll see who wins
the election! We'll see whether a man can ride roughshod over other men
because he believes he has a mission to perform!"
"Mr. President," Messerschmidt said in his steady voice, "I have no
idea of whether I am supplied with a mission to lead. I doubt it. I
don't particularly feel it. But when I speak my opinions, people agree
with me. It isn't a question of my wanting to or not wanting to.
People follow me."
"No Freeman in his right mind will follow you!"
"But they will. What it comes down to is that I speak for more of them
than you. There's no Utopia with room for men like you and me, and yet
we're here. We're constantly being born. So there's a choice--kill us,
burn us down, or smash your Utopia. And you can't kill more than one
generation of us."
Messerschmidt's eyes were brooding. His mouth twisted deeper into
sadness. "I don't like doing this to you, Mr. President, because I
understand you. I think you're wrong, but I understand you. So I came
here to apologize.
"I'm a leader. People follow me. If they follow me, I have to lead
them. It's a closed circle. What else can I do? Kill myself and leave
them leaderless? Someday, when I'm in your position and another man's
in mine, events may very well move in that direction. But until the
man who'll displace me is born and matures, I have to be what I am,
just as you do. I have to do something about the Northwesters. I have
to get these people back together again so they're a whole, instead of
an aggregate of isolated pockets. I have to give them places to live
together. Not all of us, Mr. President, were born to live in eagle
rooks on mountaintops. So I've got to hurt you, because that's what the
people need."
Kimmensen shook in reaction to the man's consummate arrogance. He
remembered Bausch, when they finally burst into his office, and the way
the great fat hulk of the man had protested: "Why are you doing this? I
was working for _your_ good--for the good of this nation--why are you
doing _this_?"
"That's enough of you and your kind's hypocrisy, Messerschmidt!" he
choked out. "I've got nothing further I want to hear from you. You're
everything I despise and everything I fought to destroy. I've killed
men like you. After the election tonight, you'll see just how few
followers you have. I trust you'll understand it as a clear warning to
get out of this area before we kill one more."
Messerschmidt stood up quietly. "I doubt if you'll find the election
coming out in quite that way," he said, his voice still as calm as it
had been throughout. "It might have been different if you hadn't so
long persisted in fighting for the last generation's revolution."
* * * * *
Kimmensen sat stiffly in Jem Bendix's office.
"Where's he now?" Bendix demanded, seething.
"I don't know. He'll have left the building."
Bendix looked at Kimmensen worriedly. "Joe--_can_ he win the election?"
Kimmensen looked at Jem for a long time. All his rage was trickling
away like sand pouring through the bottom of a rotted sack. "I think
so." There was only a sick, chilling fear left in him.
Bendix slapped his desk with his hand. "But he _can't_! He just
_can't_! He's bulldozed the electorate, he hasn't promised one single
thing except an army, he doesn't have a constructive platform at
all--no, by God, he can't take that away from me, too!--Joe, what're we
going to _do_?"
He turned his pale and frightened face toward Kimmensen. "Joe--tonight,
when the returns come in--let's be here in this building. Let's be
right there in the room with the tabulating recorder. We've got to make
sure it's an honest count."